You ever put on a fedora, light a cigarette, and think, “Man, I wish I were in a hard-boiled L.A. noir thriller”? Then you watch Mulholland Falls, and suddenly you’re glad you’re just sitting in sweatpants, wondering where two hours of your life just went.
This movie wants to be L.A. Confidential before L.A. Confidential was even a thing. Instead, it’s a moody, bloated throwback that collapses under its own weight — like a trench coat filled with wet cement. The cast is stacked, the shadows are long, and the cigarette smoke is thick… but the script? Flimsier than a motel shower curtain.
👮♂️ The Plot: Cops, Corpses, and Confusion
Nick Nolte stars as Max Hoover, a gruff, tough-as-rawhide detective leading a four-man squad of mobster-busting cops in 1950s Los Angeles. These guys are the kind of old-school lawmen who wear suits to fistfights and believe due process is something that happens after they throw you off a cliff.
Their latest case? A murdered woman who turns out to be Max’s ex-lover, played in flashbacks by Jennifer Connelly, looking like a pin-up brought to life by the gods of lingerie. There’s a shady government conspiracy, radioactive secrets, and John Malkovich mumbling about atomic cover-ups like he wandered in from another movie.
But honestly? After Connelly exits the picture, so does the audience’s will to live.
🕵️♂️ What Doesn’t Work (which is… most of it)
Let’s start with Nick Nolte, who spends the entire film sounding like he’s trying to cough up gravel. He looks tired. He acts tired. He mumbles like his dentures are being held hostage. At no point do you believe he’s a man passionate about justice. More like a guy passionate about whiskey and naps.
The rest of the cast — Chazz Palminteri, Michael Madsen, Treat Williams — all feel like they’re in a community theater version of The Untouchables, just waiting for a good line that never comes. The dialogue tries to crackle but lands with a thud. It’s noir, sure, but more like bore-noir. Tough guys muttering tough things in empty rooms. By the time someone throws another body off a cliff, you’re rooting for gravity to end the movie early.
The direction? Flat. The pacing? Glacial. The cinematography is decent, but wasted on a plot that can’t decide if it wants to be a murder mystery, a government thriller, or a 1950s cologne commercial gone wrong.
💃 The Only Thing That Works: Jennifer Connelly
Let’s not lie. The film peaks in the opening flashbacks with Jennifer Connelly, whose curves should’ve gotten second billing. She doesn’t have many lines, but she doesn’t need them. The camera worships her, and frankly, it’s the only worship going on in this cinematic church of disappointment.
She’s filmed like a forbidden memory — silk, shadows, soft jazz. The kind of beauty that makes you forget you’re watching a script that might’ve been copied off a cocktail napkin in Burbank.
It’s telling that when she’s no longer part of the story, the film turns gray and cold and aimless — like it lost its reason to exist.
🧨 Final Thoughts
Mulholland Falls is what happens when you gather a great cast, throw them in vintage cars, hand them some cigars, and then forget to write them a movie.
It wants to be about betrayal, obsession, and Cold War paranoia — but it ends up being about bored men in hats looking confused. It thinks it’s gritty, but it’s just grim. It thinks it’s sexy, but without Jennifer Connelly, it’s like a cigarette after a funeral — pointless and stale.
This isn’t a throwback to noir. It’s a tombstone for it.
🧯Verdict:
1.5 out of 5 fedoras — all for Jennifer Connelly’s flashback scenes.
Everyone else? Tossed off Mulholland Drive with the rest of the script.
